Day 02 - Ice Cream

"There are limits, Lady Mòrag."

"To what, Brighid?"

Mòrag steadied himself in aftermath of the sudden cut of the Jewel's voice; usually she announced herself with a subtle touch or a breath in (these of varying sharpness). The air of constant conversation ruled their private moments, regardless, making it unnecessary to ever truly restart communication, but this moment was different.

They were enjoying traditional Leftherian ice cream, in delicate portions and with coordinating sprinkles for the lavender and choclit cherry flavors, at the new designation of Lake Yewtle. Never before, or at least not for years, in their companionship had Brighid expressed any personal difficulty with the consumption of cold treats. Her favorite dessert was a Tantalese mille-feuille, and she worked with myriad creams at the tips of her fingers every morning and evening, for both her face, shoulders and chest and her lady's own.

Thus, Mòrag had no expectation of turning to find Brighid with her perfect hands covered in dripping swirls of Armu milkfat and sugar. Mòrag received no contradiction to the nonexistence of this expectation, either. Still, Brighid was perturbed.

"To domesticity?" Brighid suggested, a frown shaping her face.

Ah. "We're not quite out of the woods yet. I'm sure there'll be plenty more paperwork in our future."

Brighid sniffed. "Our singular future."

Around the swallow of a firm cherry coaxed to gushing, Mòrag nodded. "New beginnings. Perhaps not so much of confections. But limits, and reassertions, and new experiences."

"I'm not sure I follow."

"I wouldn't have accepted this invitation if I didn't know you were perfectly well-equipped not to reduce the main event to slush."

"No limit to concessions," Brighid said. Mòrag didn't have to open his own eyes to catch her blooming understanding.

"No limit to...ridiculous confluences."

"Indeed..."

"Enjoy your ice cream, Brighid."